Now I know my ABC's
by Nikki Narcissist
Summary: A collection of oneshots. The first one's kinda dark, but they'll get lighter, trust me. There'll be one for each letter of the alphabet.
1. Awake

**A/N: This is a new little thing I'm doing. It's a series of oneshots, and each one is a different letter of the alphabet. So like the first one is "Awake" for A, and so on and so forth. I hope you like them, and remember that reviews are my reason for living, so, you know, submit them.**

**About this chapter: There's a back story to this, but I wanted to type it out WITHOUT the back story, leave you guessing, haha. But if you want to know how we get to this point, just let me know and I'll put it in later on.**

**And awaaaaaaay we go!**

_Awake - (adj) - /əˈweɪk/[uh-weyk] - vigilant; alert_

The blonde girl sat upright in bed, drenched in a cold sweat. Her shallow breathing and racing heartbeat both followed the steady rhythm of the pounding in her head. Her frail arms wrapped around her waist, thin from the countless nights of not eating, of being too disgusted and afraid to eat. She wrestled her way out from underneath the covers, glancing at the girl sleeping by the window, her face bathed in moonlight. The slumbering girl was oblivious to the wind, whispering unheard secrets into the crack between the window and the frame. Turning away, the blonde crossed to the door and slowly eased it open, stepping her bare feet onto the cool wood of the hallway. Trembling, she lowered herself down the stairs and into the entrance.

It was a long way to the back door, and she knew they would be waiting for her around every corner. They, with their scarred faces and dark eyes, were always waiting. They were in her dreams, their decomposing hands reaching for her. She closed her eyes and ran, crashing through the house until she felt the bare skin of her toes meet the dusty linoleum of the utility room. Her eyes fluttered open as she slipped her shoes on and forced her arms through an old brown coat.

A cold gust of wind smashed against her sweat-dampened face as she threw open the back door and left the house. She trudged down the suburban road, not watching as the white picket fences passed her by. A dog barked in the distance. And suddenly, she was out of the suburbs, in the place Laury and James called, "the bad part of town." Her dainty feet led her down a familiar, dimly-lit street, past the boarded-up pink house and along a dark alley she knew all too well, ending at the corner. She knew they were waiting for her just around said corner, and she knew that if she continued a few more steps, she would come face-to-face with them, and she would be knocked back into the waking world, the smell of rotting flesh lingering on the edge of her senses. She knew it was a dream, a nightmare. It had to be, for her feet had only taken her this far in her restless sleep. Taking a deep breath, she started forward, only to find that she had collided with something soft and warm, leaving her on the ground, her tailbone aching. She almost believed it could be him. She slowly opened her eyes and glanced at his startled face, his emerald-green eyes wide with surprise.

"Wh-what are you doing her?" he stammered, leaping to his feet and offering her his hand. She took it and allowed him to pull her up, his skin warm against her cold fingers.

"I needed some air..." she said softly, her voice hoarse from months of silence. For the first time since the incident, she heard sound coming from her own chapped, cracked lips.

"Yeah, me, too... couldn't sleep..." he mumbled. There was a pause. She was on her feet, her hand grasping his, afraid to let go.

"It's been a while..." he said slowly.

"Yeah." she responded, too tired for insults. His eyes flickered across her face, searching for something that was missing, something that had died along with her parents the day that she was met with sirens after school, the warmest welcome she had ever gotten.

"You know, if you need to talk about it-"

"I don't need to talk, Arnold. I just need... I don't know what I need. But I've gone almost a year without talking, I don't need to talk now."

And with that, he hugged her. Not the friendly, vice-like hugs he'd bestowed upon her in the past, and not the achingly romantic ones in her hormone-fueled dreams, but a soft, gentle hug. His arms affectionately around her waist, holding her close. His chin resting delicately on the top of her head. The way his smooth voice frantically whispered, "I'm sorry, Helga, I'm sorry. I should have been there, I'm so sorry."

It was perfect, he was perfect, and as he walked her back to the wide green lawns and little yappy-dogs confined to stuffy utility rooms in the rising Northwestern sun, for the first time in ten months, one week, four days, nine hours and three minutes, Helga felt...

Awake.


	2. Box

**A/N: Oh my gosh. I haven't written in AGES. Sorry, guys!**

**Anyways, lots of people have been asking for a back story for "Awake" so here it is: Her dad came home one day to find her mom passed out drunk on the couch. They got into an argument and he struck her, she hit him back, and he eventually stabbed her 27 times with a fireplace poker. When he realized what he'd done and that he'd go to prison for it, he shot himself in the head. She came home to that. Afterwards, she was put into the foster care system. Laury and James are her foster parents, and they have one daughter, Cecilia, who shares a room with Helga.**

**About this chapter: Just a little fluff about Curly and Rhonda. As much as I love Harold, I wanted to give Curly his day. And there's still 24 more letters for Harold!**

_Box - (n) - [boks] - a container, case, or receptacle; a small shelter_

He was king in here.

No one could make fun of his dorky haircut or clunky glasses from within the confines of his shelter.

In here, he was a sculptor, a sorcerer, a prince.

It had been almost a year since Curly had found his box. It had been a brisk December morning. The sun never truly rose that day; the sky went from black to charcoal to a light grey. The rain stung his numb fingers and nose. For three hours, he stood, diligent, waiting for her thin frame to turn the corner. And then it was too much, knowing she wasn't coming, knowing that he'd lost her for good. And so, he ran. Past the park where they shared a private picnic exactly one month ago, past Slausen's where she'd first let her cherry lips meet his shaking, nervous ones, past the cemetery where they'd danced in the snow, until his sad feet met grass and he collapsed onto his knees, panting and shaking with tears he was too afraid to cry. He was in a field, he could see that. Bits of trash were scattered throughout the field. A tire here, a car bumper there; this field was eerily familiar to him, though he'd never been there. He shivered, suddenly aware of the pouring rain, and decided to take shelter under a lone weeping willow. The willow was tall and broad, its branches dripping bitter tears of mercy onto the cold, damp ground. He crawled between its leaves and sat in the fetal position, shuddering, for what felt like hours, before his stinging eyes fell upon a box. It was a brown refrigerator box, ordinary enough, but a crudely made welcome mat sat directly outside of the opening, and the insides of the box were covered in a clumsy, thin handwriting. Curly wriggled inside and squinted through the beads of rainwater that had collected on his glasses. The box was covered in stories. Long, fantastic stories, about princesses and dragons and far away lands. And they all started in this box.

That day, Curly was a sultan, with a harem of gorgeous women and the whole world at his command. He came back the next day, and the day after, and then again the day after that, and every day for the next year, and then she finally noticed.

"Where do you go every day?"

Those were the first words she'd said to him in twelve months, twenty one hours, six minutes. Her eyes penetrated his defenses, her voice soothed his nervous heart. He said nothing, but instead took her hand and led her along the familiar route to the field, to the willow tree, to the box. They crammed themselves inside, and he showed her the stories he'd read, and told her of the ones he'd created, and asked her to come with him this time. She laughed, a loud, haughty laugh, and shook her head. She was almost 13, far too old for such silly games.

"Close your eyes, Rhonda. Please. Close your eyes for me."

And she heard the longing in his voice and told him she wanted to be a princess. A pretty one, who sits in a tower and gets rescued and marries a rich, handsome prince. And with that, he eyes clamped themselves shut, and he started talking. And she was taken to a tower, guarded by a thousand lions and an army of the king's finest men. Curly fought bravely and ended up, bruised and tattered, by her bedside, inches from death.

"Dear sweet knight, you have fought valiantly, and I shall reward you with a kiss."

Her eyes fluttered open, and she was back in a refrigerator box with Curly. She leaned close to him and brushed her lips softly against his. He smiled and asked her if she enjoyed it, and if she wanted to come back again tomorrow, and she said yes, and that he may not be a knight, but he was hers, and he was all she needed.


End file.
